


It's Not Polite to Throw People Out of Windows

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Scandal In Belgravia, Challenge Response, Gen, Humor, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:39:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade's not sure how John does it. Keep his sanity, that is.<br/>Includes event from the episode "The Scandal in Belgravia"</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Polite to Throw People Out of Windows

**Author's Note:**

> This was a story I had to write for my creative class in college. We to use certain words in order, which were: Defenestrate, Vague, Pandemonium, Tortoise, Forecast, Frustrated, Yesterday, Flamboyant, Eerie, Spontaneous, Seven, Tacos, Indubitable, Licked, Amigo, Aberration, Shallow, Lithe, Tomorrow, Drawn, and Cat.
> 
> So, with just the first word, I could only think of Sherlock so I just wrote a Sherlock fanfiction.
> 
> I hope you guys like it. :)

The detective stared down at the blood smear and broken glass on the pavement, before glancing up at the shattered window up above, two stories up. He looked back down again, meeting the eyes of the man standing next to the ambulance, a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The man stared back at him, his eyes like steel. The detective sighed inwardly and prepared himself for walking over and talking to the man, knowing that doing so would result in snarky comments and insults thrown at him, as usual. He didn't even bother pulling out his notepad as he came to stand by him.

"Exactly how many times was the man thrown out the window, Sherlock?"

The man looked up at him, the corners of his lip twitching up in the barest of smiles, "I'm not sure. I lost count."

Greg Lestrade pursed his lips, "Of course you did. Now why exactly did you throw-"

"Defenestrate."

Lestrade blinked, "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, you're forgiven."

"Why did you say that word?"

"Well, if you want to get more technical in your report later on, maybe make it seem like you have a higher IQ than thought, use the word defenestrate. You do know what the word means, right?"

"Of course, I do Sherlock. I'm a bloody homicide detective. Wouldn't get very far without knowing terminology like that. Now stop being vague and just tell me what happened here."

"It's a surprise you've gotten that far at all," the man stood up, pulling the blanket off his shoulders and bundling it up to shove into Lestrade's chest. The detective acted on instinct, his arms curling around the discarded fabric. As he watched the man walk away to rejoin with John Watson, he nearly opened his mouth to yell after him, tell him to come back because they weren't done with the investigation. He closed his mouth again, however, having thought better of it.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson led him up the stairs to John and Sherlock's flat before dashing back off again. One look through the doorway let him know just why she didn't want to step foot inside the room. The room was a pandemonium, with papers and books scattered across the sitting room. John was currently leaning over the couch, trying to collect the papers off it and put them in a somewhat organized pile on the side table while Sherlock scurried about on the other side of the room, making even more of a mess. At the rate Sherlock was going, John may have been moving as slow as a tortoise, barely making a dent in the mess.

Lestrade tapped on the door frame, hoping they could hear him over the insane mumblings of Sherlock. John looked up, smiling at the appearance and even looked a bit relieved.

"Sherlock, Lestrade is here," He yelled over to Sherlock before he ran into the kitchen, muttering about making tea. Now Lestrade knew why John had looked so relieved to see him. Sherlock turned on him, stepping quickly across the room to reach him.

"Judging by the sweat on your brow and mud on your shoes, you walked here. Trying to lose some weight to gain the attention of a woman?"

A warning 'Sherlock' drifted out from the kitchen and Lestrade saw Sherlock struggling not to say more.

"You better have a case for me or I'm throwing you back out on the street. According to the forecast told by boring weather man that was on the telly this morning, it's going to rain. So this better be good."

"Oh, ignore him," John said, reemerged from the kitchen, tea in hand. Sherlock sat down on the sofa with a humph, throwing his dressing gown tighter around his thing figure. Now that Lestrade looked at him, he seemed less pale and more fleshed out than usual, not doubt because his mind wasn't preoccupied by a case and John had finally managed to get him to eat and sleep a bit more than usual, "He's just frustrated because all the potential clients that came in yesterday were not interesting to him."

"They were boring, that's what they were. Don't be kind to those people. They were boring."

John rolled his eyes, setting down the tea. He motioned toward an armchair for Lestrade to sit in and he did, settling back against the cushion.

"Let me guess, he shooed them out in a flamboyant way?"

"Of course he did. He's Sherlock."

"They deserved it," Sherlock interjected, "One of them wanted me to investigate the eerie noises coming from their attic. I told them to get pest control to look at it. Then there was some spontaneous lad who appeared on my couch, asking for my autograph. I nearly threw him out the window."

"Now, now Sherlock. You only do that when people point guns at Mrs. Hudson, remember?" John ridiculed him, pouring the tea into the three cups.

"Speaking of that," Lestrade turned to look at the broken window, covered in plastic and duct tape, "When exactly are you getting that fixed?"

"Some bloke is coming in at seven in the morning tomorrow."

"Seven?"

"Yeah, it's sort of an ungodly hour, but I wanted to get it done before we become preoccupied with something else. Like a murder."

"You know, I do believe I feel like having tacos tonight, John," Sherlock suddenly mused, "I don't think their taco meat is true meat. This is an indubitable truth, but I'll have to experiment on it anyway to discover what it is that people are eating exactly."

"So you're not going to actually eat the tacos?" He passed a cup of tea to Lestrade, scooting the sugar over with it. The detective gave him a nod of thanks.

"Of course not, don't be preposterous, John," he grimaced, "Why would I ever stoop so low as to eat greasy tacos?"

"I was just wondering," he licked his lips, sitting down in his own chair after setting a cup in front of Sherlock, though he doubted the man would even take a sip of it, too lost in his own thoughts. Sure enough, while Lestrade and John were busy having small talk, Sherlock jumped back up, resuming his pacing from earlier, flicking though papers all over the room.

"I know it's here somewhere," he muttered, ripping a book out of a stack and stepping out of the way as the rest cascaded down onto the floor. Lestrade watched as John kept his temper, instead taking his anger out on his tea, slurping on it noisily.

"Amigo means friend, right? Of course it does," he didn't even wait for an answer, "John hand me my phone."

"It's in your pocket."

Sherlock just held out his hand, waiting. With a sigh, John got up and retrieved the object from the pocket of Sherlock's dressing gown, slamming it down into his outstretched hand. Immediately his fingers curled about it and he threw the paper over his shoulder, deciding to tap furiously on his phone, his fingers flying over the touch screen as he sent a text to God knows who.

"I'll be back by five," he suddenly shouted, and John was just glad he remembered to run into his room to change into some normal clothes.

"Is this a normal day for you?" Lestrade whispered in case Sherlock could hear them.

"If he did anything different, it would be an aberration," he took in a shallow breath and sat back down just as Sherlock dashed back out. He sprung over to where he had thrown his coat and pulled it on, his lithe fingers making quick work of his customary scarf, tucking it around his neck.

"You better have a case for us by tomorrow," he said to Lestrade, pocketing his cellphone.

"What do you want me to do? Go out and kill someone for you?"

"If you have to, yes."

Lestrade looked pale and drawn for a moment before he just shoot his head in disbelief, "I'm not going out and killing someone so you can have a spot of fun, Sherlock. It's also illegal, I might add."

Sherlock fluttered his hand as though that was just a menial detail before turning to leave. As he ran down the stairs, they heard him yell back up, "If the exercise doesn't work, Lestrade, might I suggest you just get a cat?"

The two left in the room looked at each other before shaking their heads, back to sipping their tea.


End file.
